


Phenomenon

by onenotseen



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, M/M, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5001016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onenotseen/pseuds/onenotseen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon is acting weird, and Ryan seems to be the only one who notices. Tragedy befalls the group, and Ryan suspects Jon is behind it all. But can he be sure, or is it just his mind playing tricks on him? A story of mysterious events in which you can never be sure of the truth. </p><p>Slight hints of Ryan/Brendon</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this started as a simple idea that had nothing to do with Panic at the Disco. Well, it evolved and now it is one of the most disturbing and weird things I have ever written. If the plot, or timeline seems weird it is because Ryan is an unreliable narrator, which means that his perspective is different than what is happening in reality.
> 
> I am not terribly proud of this fic, mainly because of how strange it is, but my hope is that people get enjoyment from reading it. So, enjoy!

It was that Monday when I first noticed the strange way in which Jon would not make eye contact with me. It wasn’t very hard to notice because usually Jon is really open and laid back, but on this particular day, he was jumpy and never seemed to relax completely. None of us had energy. When was the last time we all had some solid sleep? A month? Two? A year? That is why it felt so wrong to see Jon pacing back and forth in my flat’s kitchen at 7:00 A.M. All four of us were camping out here, in L.A. for the three days during which we will play two different shows and make a TV appearance. 

I had bought this place in hopes that Keltie would ask to move in with me at some point. Screw that. Poor girl deserves better. Anyway, it is a small, one bedroom, one bath place that perches in a hill that overlooks the beach. I’m rich; I won’t deny it. It’s not like I bought a mansion, anyways. 

So, we all suck at cooking, except for Jon, so it wasn’t too weird for him to be making us breakfast. He normally whistles or hums as he adds pepper to the scrambled eggs, or stirs whatever concoction he decided sounds good. However, it was not the case today. The silence that hung in a cloud around Jon was almost unsettling enough to put you on edge. Something about his eyes weren’t right, either. They moved like a squirrel, out of sync with his body and twitchy. Maybe it isn’t normal for me to notice things like this, but when one of your best friends is acting oddly, it hardly escapes your attention. This new aura that Jon was emitting bugged me in a way that annoyed, and I had to do something. Break it, somehow. I don’t know. Anything! I sat, “reading” the newspaper in the small dining area, which was viewable from the modest kitchen because of a large, square cutout of the wall. This house really was designed for couples. I sigh loudly, fold and set the down the paper, before stretching my arms up and back, lengthening my torso. This drew Jon’s gaze from the sizzling of the stovetop. 

“Still tired, Ross?” Jon asked, in a voice that sounded more sinister than teasing. He didn’t even look up from the orange he was violently screwing into a juicer.

“No, actually,” I say, standing, “I slept as hard as a dead man.”

Jon didn’t laugh. He just kept squeezing another orange half while hiding a grin. The pull of Jon’s lip gave me the chills. I really did sleep well. Why was Jon so pleased to hear that? My thoughts were interrupted by Spencer, wandering in sleepily from the living room that was just around the corner from the dining area slash large view window. 

“Mornin’,” he intoned, yawning and not bothering to cover it. His beard was downright unruly. I held in my laughter, knowing that I at least had lots of scruff to take care of. That is, if I felt like it. Might as well keep the same look for a while, though. I’d better shave before the TV appearance, in that case. Spencer and I sleep in the living room on the couch cushions because Brendon and Jon are guests in my house. Spencer is more like family. Not that we’re not all very close. That’s just how I organized us in my tiny abode. 

I never share a room with Brendon, anyway, for whatever reason. He hugs too much, I think, then laugh out loud. Jon doesn’t turn from where he’s dividing portions, (oh, how domestic), but Spencer quirks an eyebrow at me as he scratches his belly through the old, grey high school shirt he donned as pajamas. It was a shirt for the swim team, not that he was ever a part of it. I vaguely remember a brunette crush he had in junior year that would have owned a Piranha Girl’s Swim Team shirt. The clinking of my cheap plates brought me back to the real world. I observe the meal Jon had prepared. My stomach growls in approval as Jon sinks into the chair to my right, Spencer being directly in front of me, and Brendon’s empty chair to my left. 

“Where’s Bren?” I asked, innocently, as I reach for a glass of pulpy orange froth.

“Oh, he is sleeping in,” Jon says, too casually as he inhales a thick cup of black coffee. Probably a fix of his from his barista days. I am mildly amused at my own lame joke. That is, before I take in Jon’s words. Brendon doesn’t sleep in. Never. In fact, the one and only time that I can ever remember that happening was when he and I were passed out on a pull out sofa after having drunk a little too much the first tour we took in Europe. Let’s just say, we were ambushed with cameras the next morning that belonged to mischievous members of Fall Out Boy. 

“Is he okay?” Spencer asked, brows knitted together. He was probably thinking the same things I just was. 

“Oh yeah, he’s just tired because we stayed up all night playing endless sessions of truth or dare,” Jon joked. I saw Spencer flinch and look into his mug of coffee.

“Okay…” I replied. There was this feeling in my stomach like someone cookie-cuttered a hole in the bottom. I non-purposefully made eye contact with Spencer, who looked more awake than he had just a minute ago.

“Maybe I should check on him…”I started.

“No!” Jon roared. Spencer and I must have looked started, because Jon lowered himself back into his chair and changed his voice to something more airy and quirky. “Brendon said not to let anyone wake him because if he doesn’t get enough sleep, he’ll be a crabby man, and no one wants to see a crabby man on TV.”

I chuckled, imagining Brendon, laying sleepily on my white, silk sheets and mumbling this to Jon at one o’clock in the morning. Jon nodded, seeming pleased by my reaction. We continued eating, or more like wolfing. Never underestimate the power of three hungry males in the morning. Or something. 

There was a hasty exchange when we finished, in which Jon tried to clear our plates and do the dishes, but I fought him for it. I won in the end, and ran the hot water in the sink as I guided apple-scented soap over various eating utensils with a new sponge. 

Jon and Spencer are in the living room, folding the sheets and blankets that Spencer and I had used as bedding. I smile to myself, thinking of the scene. Some days, it just feels so good to know that things are clean. I stare out the kitchen window to the sparkling waves beyond as I dry the dishes with a towel. There is a tingling in my chest, as well as my fingertips and toes. This air is the freshest I’ve ever breathed, despite the smog-infused tang. Perhaps it is even that quality of air that I crave over others; I never was much into things being too perfect. I hear the sound of my Wii starting up in the living room. Slamming the dishes into the cabinets, I rush to the said room. 

“You can’t use my Wii without inviting me to play,” I quipped at them, resisting the urge to pout. Spencer patted a spot on the floor to his right, his left already being occupied by Jon. I grab the nun chuck, my unease settling a bit. Nothing is wrong with Jon, Spencer or Brendon. It is just my stupid creative mind placing scenarios in my head. I sigh and launch into the game. It is only when I think I hear pitiful little cries and moans coming from an unknown source does my unease return. 

~

 

Darkness. Darkness and pain. So much pain that the word itself does not seem to be a good descriptor. Types of pain that I didn’t even know were possible to have. Flashes of my memory kept happening, almost as clear as hallucinations and I steeled myself from crying out. Little whimpers escaped instead. I begged in my mind for him not to hear and return…that would be the worst…god….no!

~

It was noon when panic started creeping up my spine again. It felt hot, like a stove. Had I really forgotten about Brendon? Shouldn’t he be awake by now? Brendon never sleeps this many hours at a time. 

“Ryan?” Spencer is looking at me, eyes big and blue, pupils resembling the thinnest dot that a sharpie can make. 

“What?” I ask, not realizing that I dropped the Wii controller to the ground. 

Spencer looked at me like I was a mental patient, “You just suddenly stopped playing and dropped that.”

“Oh,” I was genuinely surprised as I looked from the paused game screen to Jon and Spencer’s worried eyes. Ice blue and foresty brown-green gazed at me. 

“Um…” I stood, “I left my vitamins in the bathroom. Can’t forget to take them, or I could get sick.”

I gestured to the staircase. Spencer nods, accepted this excuse. I suppose that I do get kind of spacey when my mind is focused and worried about something. Jon, however, is looking at me intently, mouth drown into a line. I might be over reading things, but his eyebrows seem to tilt inwards and down. In anger? I ditch the spiders in my stomach and fly up the staircase. 

The bathroom is connected to the bedroom, but there is an outside door, too. Screw my vitamins. It is true that I often get sick during tours, and I take vitamins to boost my immune system to avoid it, however, I just really have to see Brendon. 

I won’t deny that we have a strange friendship. Maybe I am a bit addicted to him in some semi-sick way. He is always full of surprises and perhaps that is what intrigues me. Especially because his brain to mouth filter is entirely broken. Not to mention how he is a graceful klutz. I snigger at the thought, picturing him tripping over his own microphone stand, eyes wide, arms pin wheeling, and somehow landing on both feet again. Not that that has to do with my Brendon obsession or the cloudy feeling I get while watching him move in any context, but I was excited to see him. 

My body activates on its own and grips the glass doorknob to my room, sweeping the door open wide. The curtains are drawn, dark and heavy like a mauve night sky. The only light is flooding in from the doorway, in which I stand, white and warm like the sun. For a second, I really do think that Brendon is still asleep. Relief fills my every pore; he is lying under the soft, blue duvet, glasses on the nightstand. 

That is when I notice how the pale sheen that his skin is supposed to emit is marred by red, angry patches, mixed into the sickly seaweed-colored swill. The bruises are more purple in some places, and dark like a liver. The thought and sight makes my stomach roll in waves. I sink to my knees because they are suddenly made of air, and the form on the bed shifts. I can tell, even from here, that he is trembling. Perhaps, even drifting in and out of consciousness. That’s when my sense of smell returns, and hard. The invasive iron tang paints my nasal cavities, as well as my tongue, and rot slides down my throat. I force back my gag reflex, refusing to hurl. My mind starts to echo loudly, a word, along with a deep maroon color. Blood. Blood. Then I think, Brendon. Blood plus Brendon. I leap from the ground, and shoot myself across the room to the bed, curling my fingers under the duvet and shucking it like a spider web in my face. I would have removed the sheets as well, but they were glued to a naked, hundred-forty-five pound body with a red paste. 

I must have started screaming a while ago, because I only go lucid when Spencer’s soft arms are pulling me back from the bed, where I had been smearing my hands in gore, trying to feel for something. My eyes rolled back in my head as I attempted to look Spencer in the eye. Flesh, warmth, a pulse, anything. I don’t know. The skull that belongs to me is starting to feel like a thunderstorm: loud, overburdened and windy. As my vision gets grainy and black, I faintly feel the vibrations of Jon’s slightly accented voice, calling Brendon’s name as if he could hardly believe it himself. And I believed him in that moment. 

~

Fingertips. These were not his, but my body screamed for them to stop touching me, anyway. As if I could move. As if I could stand up to him. Finally, they were wrenched away, and I was back in darkness. Stillness. That lasted for a while before light flooded the place, and uncountable numbers of hands and fingertips were splayed across my body this time, some ripping away my skin, and others bruising my back. I ascended into the air, wondering if I were finally dying. But, there was no way death could hurt this much. Sound and light was filling my brain like a cup of empty water, but I was not processing it. Next thing I knew, air was being pumped into my lungs and all of my senses completely fled. 

~  
TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah....this is really weird and doesn't make much sense! But I hope you enjoy

I was fighting. Or, battling for my life, rather. A shorter man with soft, dark brown hair was chasing me, butcher knife in hand. He kept flashing between Jon and my father, two of which I never realized were so similar in stature. The idea alone was unpleasant. I looked at my arms, having suddenly felt a weight between them. A warm, grey rabbit with a fast heartbeat looked up at me with deep brown eyes. Do rabbits normally have such expressive eyes? In that moment that our eyes met, the murderer let out a screeching growl, like a feral animal, and I tripped on an uneven part in the sidewalk. 

Casting my shoulder towards the ground, I shielded the poor little rabbit from impact. I looked to my cradled arms to double check if it was okay, but instead I was holding something that oozed pus and blood. Its body was mangled and I gave up. Gave in. The big, beating muscle in my chest clenched, ceasing its rhythm, and- Oh! I woke abruptly, arms flailing. 

“Watch it, man, take it easy,” Spencer caught my arms and brought them together, pinning them to the couch.

“Where’s the rabbit?” I ask, stupidly. Spencer looks at me with pity in the mirrors of his eyes.

“I don’t know, Ryan. But Jon is riding with Brendon is the ambulance. We would have let you go with him, but…” Spencer gestures to my position on the couch. I flush pink.

“So…” I begin, hesitantly, “…it was really…”

I see the anguish in Spencer’s baby blue eyes. Brendon and Spencer see so eye-to-eye that you would think they were doing it on purpose. This is really affecting him.

“Oh my god, I fainted,” I mutter, “So embarrassing.”

“Not really,” Spencer’s hands clench each other, “It was a really big shock for you…not that it wasn’t for us, too. But, we knew something terrible must have happened based on the screaming you were doing. And it is Brendon…which, you know…you and him are…never mind. We were so worried for you when we heard you scream.”

“For me?” I gasp, “What about…he’s dead! HOW CAN YOU JUST SIT HERE?”

I felt like getting physical; like punching Spencer’s stupid chest would knock some sense into him.

“What?” Spencer looks wide-eyed, “He’s not dead. Didn’t I just say he is riding in an ambulance?”

“What are we doing, then?” I demand, non-forgiving, “I’m driving to the hospital.”

I make to leave the couch, but Spencer pulls me back down by my bicep. 

“Nah-uh,” Spencer says, firmly, “You’re not driving. You will drink some of whatever hard liquor you have in this house. I will drive us.”

I give in, and let Spencer bring me the bottle of gin that I keep for special occasions. I only drink a lot when I’m partying. Or trying to get drunk with Brendon on his birthday. And then go swimming in the ocean like idiots. Good times. In a blur, we’re climbing into my Audi and driving along the highway to the best, most private hospital in L.A. I bitterly sip the gin out the bottle. Like magic, the warmth and calm of the alcohol seeps into my veins, leaving the panic and flighty feelings to be only a memory. The new sense of stillness allows me to marvel at how calm Spencer’s driving is. I tell him so, and he gets this small smile on his face, which means he appreciates me saying so. 

I must fall into slumber again, because when I wake from a dreamless sleep, we are pulling into a visitor parking space. Spencer shoves an overlarge pair of sunglasses at me, and I take them, to cover my face. As we enter the building through automatic glass doors, and walk through the cheery corridors, I try hard to not be jealous of all these people with normal, non-famous lives, each taking their turns at checking the map. I do not notice any details. All I can think about is Brendon. That is, until I remember Jon. The name sinks in my mind like a rock in a pond. I turn to the drummer, whose face is blank. We continue walking briskly through the atriums and walkways.

“Hey, Spence,” I say monotone, “did you notice anything weird about—”

“Ryan! Spencer!” Jon’s suave voice calls from across the E.R. atrium, which we now enter. It is the least decorative, and mostly features glass help windows for visitors to check on people, and the same ugly patterned couches shoved into the corners of the room. Stupid banners hang along the walls that sensationalize the effectiveness of the hospital. We’re all about YOU! There is no time to even mentally snort at it.

“Jon,” Spencer sounds relieved, and he rushes to greet him. Jon stands before us, be-flip-flopped and five-o-clock-shadowed. His movements are too deliberate to be normal.

“Brendon’s in the ICU, getting surgery. He shattered all of his ribs, broke a leg bone, as well as his foot, and ruptured his spleen. Not to mention his concussion, and copious amount of bruises and lesions from glass.” My limbs go numb.

“Glass?” I ask, my surprise less evident from my alcohol intake, “What does glass have to do—”

“He fell out of the window and drug himself back to bed,” Jon states, as if it were either too obvious, or he is confused about why it would be anything else. 

Well, Brendon is thin. About forty five pounds heavier than me, but still. He could have been injured that badly from a fall. He can be a klutz, too…but he drug himself back up the hill, (my bedroom window faces the steep, rocky hill,) into the house, and to the room without us noticing? And Jon was sleeping on the floor in the same room! Spencer’s large hand grabs my shoulder, and I jump like a twitching eyeball. He and Jon were exchanging glances, making me feel like the odd one out for some reason. Couldn’t Spencer tell that there is something not quite right in this situation?

“You sure scared us, Ry,” Jon offers, “we are sorry that we couldn’t have found him instead.”

“When can we see him?” I ask, ignoring the sentiment offered by one former guitar techie. Jon and Spencer raise brows at each other again. “Guuuhh, just tell me, Jon!”

“He should wake up from the surgery tomorrow,” Jon closes his eyes briefly. 

Spencer is looking pale and nervous. “The media, the tour…”

“Will be postponed, of course,” Jon assures.

“Did you call J.D. and tell him what happened?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Jon says, “he postponed it all. He’s frantic about Bren.”

All three of us go silent. I know that we are all picturing Brendon’s excited eyes, stupid jokes and dorky enthusiasm for music. Right now, he is being sliced with a scalpel, and re-arranged. Even thinking about something cutting into Brendon’s flesh gives me a sick feeling in my mind and stomach, again. That’s when we realize that we are standing in the middle of the E.R. waiting area, which isn’t exactly private. So, we nonverbally migrate to the outside. The wind is slightly chilly from the ocean, and it bites my face. But, not hard enough. As we pile into my car, my mind starts racing. Thoughts of when I found him try to rush in, vivid and even more horrible, but I guard them out like some sort of wall springing up in my brain. Immediately after, I get the idea that I will burn my bed and buy a new one. The thought placates the insanity boiling just below the surface.

When we finally get back to my place, Jon does not let me alone with Spencer. It is almost like he knows that I want to share my suspicions of him with the drummer. He follows us closely when we get out of the car, and walk into the house. He asks what we are doing, and says that we should do things together, adding emphasis on the supposed importance. I mention my bed burning idea, which Jon and Spencer take quickly to. We agree to bring the damn thing downstairs. You can tell that the other two band members feel uneasy around me, like I’ll turn into a fire cracker and explode loudly if they aren’t ultra nice to me. I am angry at them, and want to inform them exactly how I feel about this treatment, but I remind myself that they are just being friends. 

It takes us the rest of the day’s light to bring the damn piece of furniture down the stairs and outside, so when we finally get it burning, (laws be damned), we decide to have s’mores for dinner. I do not deny my sweet tooth. I would have eaten twenty of those chocolaty-delicious things ,but I kept being reminded of the smell of blood, deep red and thick like cake on Brendon’s skin, tangy and pungent like the chocolate in my mouth. I swallow my s’more and excuse myself from Jon and Spencer. 

The two are lounging back, feet extended down on the grassy incline, thoroughly enjoying my bed bonfire and the bag of giant marshmallows that I bought to make rice crispy treats. I had always wanted to make them, and Brendon promised we would. He told me that he used to make them all the time when he was a kid; he and his mom were the only ones in his family that loved them. When he had heard last week that I had never made them before, he insisted. I threw two bags of the biggest marshmallows in the cart when we went shopping briefly to stock my house the day before we came to stay here. 

Somehow it doesn’t feel like that happened a couple of days ago. More like a couple of years. The two other band members nod at me in unison, which would be comical if the situation didn’t feel so damn dreary. I go inside. First, I sit lightly on the round table and text Keltie. She ends up calling to get more details out of me. I could never really hide much from her. I end up telling her more about my feelings in this situation than I want anyone to know. She adores Brendon, she does. She, of course, offers me her sympathies as well as the lead singer. I tell her not to worry and it will be fine, not that I can force myself to believe my own words. Perhaps it is just my ego insisting on being the dominant one in our conversation. The girl probably knows me so well that she can pick that out and dismiss it. The thought is endearing, despite how much it makes me feel uncomfortable. 

I then text Brendon’s friends: Shane, his little brother, Pete, and Eric. I also text Brendon’s mom, last. She probably already knows because the hospital calls your listed relatives if you have certain paperwork filled out, but I figured it would be weird if at least someone from Panic didn’t text her. Not that I know whether Spencer has already. She also calls, five minutes later to get the full details. I skip telling her the part about me fainting, and touching her son’s body like a madman. God knows she already thinks I am kind of strange. I figure Spencer must have washed the blood off of my hands as I slept. Unless I really am going insane. Brendon’s mom sounds as worried as any mom should, and it leaves me with a lead feeling in my chest, that almost hurts. Especially as I hear her sniffle when I tell her that I will take care of her son. 

As I finish replying to everyone who texted back, Jon and Spencer come back inside.

“We put the fire out,” Spencer states, looking tiredly at me, “and we will clean up the ashes and shit tomorrow.” 

I simply smile in response, and we both walk to the entry room and sit on my couch. A comfortable, stressed out silence descends. 

“Spencer?” I ask, after a while.

“Hm…?”

“Do you really think that Brendon fell out of the window?”

“What?” he paused before he said that. “Of course…I saw the glass, and the spot where he landed. Sorry about your window…”

“Yeah,” I state, not knowing what to say anymore, “but Jon—”

“What about me, Ryan?” Jon stands just behind me, in my blind spot. My heart skipped a beat.

“Just wondering where you were this whole time,” I recover, successfully.

“Just putting away our dinner,” he intones, cheerfully, in a way that is almost mocking how domestic that sounds. I feel blue eyes locked on me over my shoulder, but I don’t look.

“Right,” I say, voice uncaring. He sinks into the couch to my right. I’m suddenly sandwiched between my two friends. 

“Let’s watch The Fiddler on the Roof,” suggests Spencer, and it isn’t long before we are all snoring to a song about a poor man, desiring riches. 

~

 

I cannot speak with the plastic tube down my throat. I cannot scream to tell them that I am awake. Conscious. Alive. I cannot open my eyes because they skin is too puffy and swollen, but most of all on fire. I am bruised all over, like an apple in the bottom of a fruit drawer. I can feel it, and it is driving me to the edge. I am going insane. God, end this! A loud beeping interrupts, ringing throughout the white space of existence.


	3. Chapter 3

I wake up, screaming, having no clue as to what I was dreaming about. My spine jerks straight, my thighs flex and heels pressing into the floor, my whole body jolts. I quickly silence my still sound-making mouth with my left hand, and glance at Spencer and Jon, who are stirring. Jon yawns like a cat in my face, and his breath is terrible. Mine must be similar. Jon pats my head in his half-awake state, ruffling my curly, un-straightened mane. I can feel the fuzz on my face when I scratch my nose in my arm. 

~

There is no point in sitting around and wasting time, now that our duties are postponed, and the hope of Brendon being conscious hanging around the air. I sit uneasily on the wearing-down paisley armchair that resides in one of the copious lounge areas in the hospital. This particular area is closest to the sector in which Brendon is rooming, having been brought there after his surgery was finished. 

He now has two pins in his knee, a small plate in his skull, and many apparatuses that support what is left of his mending ribcage. I was surprised to hear that the ribs heal quite well. I heard Jon talking with the doctor, who claimed that despite the ribs being totally snapped, they would make full recovery. Unlike the fracture in his skull, though. There is little to no chance of brain damage because the angle of the fracture indicates it was just enough force and placement to crack the skull, but not enough so that the brain tissue took force. 

Even though I was privy to all this information, I still could not help imagining horrible scenarios in which Brendon had turned mentally disabled, and his whole life ruined. After all, the band could not continue with him if he were not himself.   
As for his leg, it will be fine after some time of healing, and his foot was not actually broken, as they had first thought. Apparently, it would not even effect his walking after the healing time, unless he was the type to do hikes or marathons. Which he isn’t. I tried to listen and understand more than that, but I didn’t really get all the doctor jargon and mumbo jumbo that was being exchanged. However, for some reason, it still greatly upsets me that Brendon is now partially composed of metal bits. He will probably think that it is awesome and badass, or something. He’s had broken bones when he was a kid, from skateboarding, but none like this. I can’t find it in myself to laugh at how stupid the Brendon in my head sounds, appreciating his own injuries. 

We all sip stale, burnt hospital coffee, scalding our throats in the process, but not caring. Somehow, Jon is humming to himself, tapping the table and reading some drug store, (or hospital?), paperback. A blond, beefy man cradles an equally blond, bodacious woman in front of the setting sun. The tapping continues like a metronome. It is annoying as hell. I tell him.

“Aww, don’t be a jerk-face, Ross,” he replies, unusually snarky. Spencer glares at us over his newspaper. He flutters it loud and huffs. I hold my head in my hands, the feeling of boredom starting to sink in, as well as a migraine. 

I glanced at the double doors, earlier, that boldly state: “NO ENTERING WITHOUT DOCTOR PERMISSION.” I snort at it now. Snooty doctors. I just want to burst through those beige, swinging doors and rush to his room, if I only get to glance at him, it is worth being tackled by security. I sigh and force those thoughts away. It won’t happen, so why waste energy thinking it? Maybe I’m just impatient. Maybe I just hate hospitals. Why isn’t Jon impatient?! Even Spencer keeps checking his watch, or asking at the nearest reception desk to see if Brendon has gained consciousness yet. 

Thankfully, my phone starts buzzing against my crotch, and I dig it out to answer, without even looking at caller ID. 

“Yo, my duckling.” It is Pete Wentz.

“Hi. How’s it goin’?” I am used to his stupid nicknames. Especially that one. It is at least better than ‘one-who-I-sired’, in any case. I get pretty mad when he says that.

“Has the baby woken up yet?” he asks, mildly. That would be Brendon he’s talking about, if it weren’t obvious enough.

I grind my teeth. “No. We are waiting at the hospital for him. Got all of our schedules crap put off.”

“My sympathies, man. There are many stupid jokes I could say right now, but I know how serious this probably is for you guys. I mean, if Patrick ever…”

Pete can go on and on…and when it comes to Patrick, it is the worst. I hum at the right moments, though, and agree with his points. Even when he starts explaining how he would want to follow Patrick, even if it meant living in a parallel universe where Fall Out Boy’s lead singer was a cannibal. I learned to just roll with it. Meeting Pete and Gabe in the same room can do that to you. Pete somehow misses the whole “guy” memo, though. The one that says guy can understand each other’s problems in three words or less. It is fine with me, though. Pete is a sincere, honest guy and a nice distraction for me right now. When I say Pete is sincere and honest, take it with a grain of salt. You certainly have to consider time, place, and people. But anyway, he is a great distraction until Doctor Conway starts to walk towards our little misfit band with purpose. 

“Sorry, Pete, gotta go!” I say quickly, eyes swiveling to the doc.

“Tell your frontman I say ‘hi’!” The line clicks dead. Spencer jerks in his seat and Jon glances at the learned man. 

“Are you the ones with Mr. Urie?” His accent would be humorous, if we weren’t all so anxious. It has a slight German timbre, tinged with something…Swedish?

“That would be us,” Jon chimes in, cheerily and steady. I feel like someone is pressing fast-forward on my arteries. My head gets static-filled.

“Good, good,” the doctor says, but who know what the hell that means? Is he saying Brendon is good? That it is good we are with him? What?

“He is awake, but groggy. He should be starting to recover, but he has low mobility and needs to remain committed here.”

What a freak, I muse. He makes it sound like Brendon is a wounded bird, instead of a talented piano man. The stress is getting to me.

“For how long?” Jon smoothly inquires. The doctor is thinking for a while, and then tells us two weeks. Jon groans about the tour, or something and I shrug. Two weeks? A month? A year? Who cares! He’s gonna be fine! I consider that to be practically a miracle, if you think about all the injuries he sustained. 

“But, also, you should know,” Conway says, “the injuries were rather odd for a fall, as you three are claiming. Brendon won’t talk, but if you ask my professional opinion, this looks more like physical assault.”

My blood runs cold. Conway sounds absolutely concerned. Jon starts to yell at the poor doctor, saying that he is calling us liars and should be sued. Spencer attempts at mediating the two, and over-apologizes to the man. Throughout the chaos, I’m stuck on one thought. 

“Can I see him now?”

The doc looks annoyed, but he probably deals with angry relatives all the time, so he spins around and leads us through those damn double doors. We trail behind like sedated ants. 

The hallway within is white and wide, beige tiles lining the too-clean floor. Machines, carts of medical supplies, and people take up seventy percent of the space, leaving us to doge anyone in a hurry. There is a slight chemical tang in the air, as well as a smell that I would rather not think too hard about. People swish by, left and right. There are always crowds of people. We reach a glass door that is shrouded with plastic teal curtains, and labeled “Brendon Urie”, followed by a bunch of nonsense that I can only assume tells the doctors why he is committed. Not committed, staying here. Damn, committed sounds like he did something, like attacked people. 

The doctor pauses over a silver door handle and makes the international shushing motion before fluidly opening the institutional door. I scoff mentally. As if we don’t know to be quiet. What does he think we are toddlers? I ignore the little voice in my head telling me that I was always quiet when I was a toddler, because I did not have many people to talk to. 

His plush cheeks indent the pure white pillow where his head rests, and are decorated with blossoms of yellow-green and some grape. Thick snow-like gauze material joins his greasy hair in a fucked-up version of a symphony. There is a large, paper-like blanket on top of him, obscuring any shape aside from a lump. What makes me gasp, however, is his eyes. They are open, sure. I think. Two peach colored flaps surround the orbs, rendering his feline-like eyes to be repulsive. They only clue I have that informs me of his awareness is the moving of his lips and the slight sounds of discomfort that escape. Perhaps if I looked hard, though, I might have been able to see his pupils slide side to side. His lips are chapped something terrible, and resemble a flaky pastry like baklava. Glowing pink patches ring the mouth, evidence of whatever torture is required during surgery. He makes a sound like a keening moan of his upper throat.

“Brendon,” I breathe in, like a first breath. He laughs, and it sounds like desert air rumpling a piece of dry paper. The sound doesn’t come across as an effort to reply, but rather the only outlet for expression available.

“Is it too hard to talk, Bren?” Spencer asks. The head on the pillow bobs like that of a woman, exhausted from having just given birth. A sickness was starting to pool in my gut, flooding in as blood forming a bruise. Such a feeling begs my body to give out, and do something. Scream. Punch a hole in the white wall. Kick the metal foot of the bed. Cry. I feel my eyes water and burn like I put hydrogen peroxide in them, but I hold it in. I don’t cry. I didn’t even cry when he died. Not even once. At least…not physically.

Spencer rounds the foot of the bed to right side, dropping to his knees and reaching his left hand to rest heavily on Brendon’s temple, away from any bandages. The two seem like strangers to me. Spencer, Brendon. Brendon, Spencer. And the drummer knows exactly what to do to comfort him. What do I know? I can hardly even look at the state he’s in. Irrational shame fills my senses when I do. The heart-wrenching scene, like the first time seeing a certain cliché, is almost dulled by how much I don’t want this to turn serious. It would be much better if the guy would just jump out of bed and laugh it off, saying that he wasn’t really sick and nothing happened. Everything is completely normal. 

But, of course, that doesn’t happen. Instead, the singer leans his forehead into the touch to acknowledge his awareness of the situation. It would have looked more cat-like if he had only been a bit more casual about it. My body roots itself to the floor where I stand, a good yard away from the foot of the stupid rolling bed. A plastic sack filled with off-colored fluid hangs on a shiny silver stand, its tentacle reaching casually down and inserting itself under an arm with raised veins and no tattoo. The hand extending outwards is bandaged with lighter linens in many places. The forefinger, in particular, has a casing of plastic that emits a pink-red glow from its innards. I know from experience that such a device is used to monitor heart rate. Of course, the memories are too vivid, and there is no space for them in my mind at the present. The rather slow, steady beeping coming from an overlarge stainless steel box that looms in the corner goes unnoticed. 

“—and we apologized greatly, so we will be doing the show as soon as possible. That is, if you’re up to it. The fans are so understanding…if you need a week or two, heck, even a month…”

Spencer goes on and on, filling Brendon in on every last detail. Even what the waiting area in the hospital is like. Either he was unable to say anything to make Spencer stop talking, or he was actually interested, but either way, the drummer went on to cover every topic with twice as many words as necessary. As his voice filled the room, my hands were itching to run their fingers over his pale arm, feel the protrusions of bone and the warmth of the sweet life fluid running like a highway just under the skin. Where it belongs. Fuck. What kind of sick freak am I? I sound worse than a serial killer. Normal people don’t think of blood so…poetically. That’s when I remember the fourth member of the room, and look behind my shoulder where he is leaning against the wall, arms crossed and staring at my two other friends. Before we can meet eyes, I slide on over back to the door, which he is a foot away from. 

“He looks terrible,” I grumble into Jon’s right ear, quiet so that the one in question cannot hear. I have to lean down to do so. Jon is a normal height, but like Pete, he finds himself too short. Not everyone can share my physique of Jack Skellington, and on that note, not everyone should. Whenever Jon makes a crack about his height, Spencer is quick to say that unlike the rest of us, he has enough muscle to look strong and attract the hot girls. The drummer is right in that sense; Brendon and I mostly attract tweens and teens. Jon works out some, though, which Brendon and I do not do. Spencer goes with him now and again. I observe the definition in Jon’s right arm, and wonder how much power and strength they actually have. 

“Poor thing,” Jon puts out, sounding a bit excited, or something, “Brendon’s never had a high tolerance to pain.” 

He hasn’t? I never noticed. Okay, maybe he did cry when he got his first tattoo. But Brendon is very skilled physically. He can do a perfect handstand, he is great at dancing, and sports are definitely his thing. And I didn’t even mention his skateboarding skills, or ability to do a full backflip. And bowling…the list just goes on. Yeah, so maybe he is not just skilled, but talented. Which could explain why he loves surfing, too. Just another sport he discovered, and of course, got good at. I mull this over in my brain until a voice wafts our way from the bed. At first, I was as alarmed as waking up on the bus to screaming girls. His voice, if you can even call it that, resembles someone speaking while trying to gargle wet gravel and sand. 

“Where’s Ryan?” he asks Jon, who moved to stand near him and currently rests a hand on Brendon’s knee area. I maneuver around the IV stand to exist on the unoccupied side of the bed. The noise makes him tense up.

“I’m here,” I say, unsure of how to conduct my voice so it ends up sounding like a confused middle-schooler, cracking and everything. He sighs heavily, chest expanding up and then falling. The air brushes my face, cold. 

“Can’t see,” he rasps, sounding exhausted. Oops. His head is still turned to the right, facing Jon and Spencer. I grab his temple and the back of his head where the hair ends, and mould his face to the other side. His lips turn upwards when he presumably sees me, finally. 

“Next time,” I try to say bravely, but my voice somehow sticks in my throat like glue, “Next time, you are not allowed upstairs, near windows, or a foot away from my person.”

The laughter he lets out sounds healthier this time, but frowns at the end. I force my face not to catch fire as I realize how the last part of that could sound wrong. Bren is usually the awkwardly phrased one, not me. But, I was just trying to tell him how much I disapprove of this situation. I didn’t mean to sound to sappy or protective. Who needs sappy crap? From me, at least. People don’t usually feel comfortable enough to unload or open up their emotional baggage onto me. It takes a personality like Pete’s or Brendon’s to do that. Even then, they pick and choose. Not even Spencer shares a lot about his personal life, or what he’s thinking with me. I suppose he works it out on his own before seeking out help from others. At least, he always seems to. I never ask, though. I wonder if that means I’m not a very good friend. I do get more snippy than most people can tolerate. Like when Brendon is joking around too much when I’m trying to be serious and get things done. Or when he just won’t listen. Or when he does something incredibly idiotic. 

“We probably should go,” Spencer says, loud and casually. He stands, angling his hips purposefully at Jon and I stare. I guess he’s saying we should let Brendon rest? Jon voices his agreement, feigning some duty that he previously forgot and we reluctantly form a glob that makes its way out of the room after a quick goodbye and promises to visit later. My instinct tells me not to go when I go to close the door behind us, but instead it wants me to stay and make sure Brendon doesn’t get bored or lonely, or dead. Ridiculous notions. I leave. 

We drive back to my place, again, and I’m hoping that after this fiasco, we never have to take this particular route again. My house feels like bad luck. The highway feels like a tragedy. The sun, setting high in the sky sears orange and ocher, spreading like liquid metal. I close my eyelids and breath in, catching the scent of smog from the city that leaks in from the cracked-open window. Jon drives like he wants to go as fast as possible. The speed, and kiss of the wind makes tingles run up and down my arms, legs, all rushing together into my head. Rhythms come together as well, and it sounds like summer melting into fall. I jot notes down into my sidekick and email them to myself. Just a few lines, nothing melody-like. As we glide into the extended driveway, and the engine fades away, I can tell that it is a movie night. Watchman, for sure. Spencer does not disappoint when he suggests it on our way in. After another Jon Walker-cooked meal, we are all asleep on the plush couch as super-humans duke it out onscreen. Deify the norm.


End file.
